Michelle Peñaloza
Night after night
I mine the dark water of memory:
face and hands a darker brown
than the rest of you
face made from the sun of bougainvillea-planting
we built a pond beneath the Tennessee sun
whistling a song
Bahay kubo, kahit munti
sidling through magnolia
my hands ruffled round floating leaves
the glint of koi scales brought to surface
gold daubed into the rings of my prints
Anak, name the fish
you carried the shade
the fish alone in their twist-tied globes
touching and not touching
a thin impermeable layer
bobbing them among red scarf lotus
anacharis
purple hyacinth
Ang halaman doon, ay sari-sari
years later
they hid your face and hands
beneath a white sheet
we lay still
touching and not touching
I try to whistle
in the silence
my breath
the thin layer between us